Venture
by PrideMySin
Summary: AU. An assault during a cool autumn night in Oxford is just the start of the violent events between the British Library and an unknown syndicate set out for the impossible. With agents one by one eradicated, who will be left to defend?
1. Chapter 1

Venture

With muted whirs and clicks, metal moved and skimmed above worn tiles and stone. _Metal has no feeling; it needs no love, no care, or warmth._ One streak after another of moonlight gliding over polished grooves. _Metal is created, forever loyal to thy maker._ Jumping to full view, encased in the illusion of the light with the moon behind as the backdrop, a machine the size of a small wolf, streamlined and swift on rush paws, landed like the single drop of liquid from the heights above, silent and unnoticed. No fur but steel, no claw or tooth but sharpened knives, all tuned and ready to kill. It dashed across rooftop to rooftop, over the tightly packed houses of Oxford, Great Britain.

As briefly as it was shown, the lifeless wolf disappeared to the shadows dancing to the ground, rustling all the fallen leaves in its wake. It sped down the street, under the intense beams of the sidewalk lights and the specks of stars in the swirling mass of dark matter called the night sky. A wind of brisk cool yet calm, brushed the metal, caressing the edges and curves. Carried by unseen hands, wind not only brought temperate moods, but gentle drizzles watching with fearful eyes, their death to the ground below.

Wind was nothing, rain was only a slight deterrent but not in these amounts. A soldier on a mission to capture its silversmith's enemy, the Director of Operations of the British Library, failure ventures on the impossible. The Director, in regards with the information given, was only a mere human, not anything dangerous as a paper master or so. All will be finished in a mere hour.

Only fifteen minutes from the location of the metal, the Director sat in his home office, alone. Only illuminating the small room whereas everywhere else in this house was pitch black, light from dimmed lamp and the glare from the laptop screen played on the worn face of Joseph Carpenter. Instead of clicks from slithering metal, these clicks were born from the tapping of his fingers against the keyboard. One-thirty-seven gleam its little lantern on the corner of the screen. Glancing at the changing time, he only shrugged and continued on. One hand slid off the keys and to the files that riddled his desk and drawers, tired eyes read the words, now meaningless by endless print and mention.

Letting go, the words gradually flew on paper wings to the desk. He rubbed his eyes; his fingers finding the familiar place around his neck, counting and counting the minutes away; not the seconds but to his heart. Each beat, each tick, slowly, softly, lull him to a sort of sleep. A sigh and a stretch, he closed the laptop and grabbed the still steaming cup of tea hidden behind some papers. He left the room, flicking off the light. Ten minutes.

The metal moved faster, each contact with the pavement was now a pound heard loud and clear. The Director shifted from the office to the living room, equally dark as the rest of the house with the most prominent feature the window wall, the hot cup of tea help in his hand, sipping occasionally; his gaze fixated through the glass, rain running down the invisible barrier, in the distance was the shimmering waters of the Thames which reflected the moon like a mirror, pure white and stainless, the tall trees that lines the edge, a dark foreground to the bright back.

Five. The metal snorted in excitement.

Four. He placed his hand against the freezing glass.

Three. Metal had spotted the house.

Two. He took another sip of his tea.

One. Metal roared.

Piercing howls riding doom reached his ears, his head jerked from the view to the fleeting sight of a pouncing wolf, a fleeting sight of silver nails, a fleeting sight of his own blood. Crimson filth splashing to the floor, he tumbled back onto the coffee table crashing through it as the wolf collided through the window; glass dived from their colleagues all around him. The metal claws, freezing to the touch, etched deep into his skin, ripping through his collar shirt and muscles. Screaming in pain, desperateness caught hold of him. Sharp barks and growls, fear went wild. His hands trying to cuff and push away the snapping jaws, many times reaching too close for comfort. Breaths, short and weak, the machine so feral. He felt himself give. The weight of the machine crushed his airway. Its head veered with sudden force out of his hands, jaws open and crunched on his left wrist. Squirts and rivers erupted from the severed veins and arteries.

"Ahhh!" he tried to jerk back, but to no avail. In return, it bit harder. His right hand found a large splinter from the table and jammed it into the jaws. Clenched teeth with sweat mixing with the blood, fatigue set in with hooks, coaxing him to give in. He forced his arm to pry the jaws open. The teeth, once silver, now dripped with crimson. He kicked the torso of the wolf; his legs previously pinned down by the hind legs but slipped off as they struggled.

Metal jumped back, taking with it large amounts of flesh. Glancing at his hand, eyes wide and horrified, he could see his own bones. Growling metal compelled him to scamper, whimper, panting to the office. He locked the door, barricading it with a nearby chair. Hobbling to the desk, he searched all the drawers, wincing at the sudden thump from the door. Panic started the rise, he tore the drawers out of the desk, papers were soaked with his blood, and slight relief filled him when he found the heavy comfort of his revolver.

But it didn't last long, the door cracked open, Joseph turned around and fired. Speeding bullets bash through the metal's shielding, striking the circuitry, sparks flew from the open wounds. Yelping in wild screeches, metal charged one last time. He emptied all his bullets, and struck the wolf away. Finally colliding with a bookcase, metal gave no reply.

Exhausted and pale, he propped himself against the desk. His blurry eyes sought his phone and discovered it under mounds of more paper. He grabbed it and entered '999'.

* * *

Author's Note: I do hope you did enjoy. I'm not much of a writer, but I'm learning.


	2. Chapter 2

Faint and wearied by long travels o'er earth still dark and damp, sunlight streams through cracked windows of sullied clarity, vitalizing dust and age, drying pages of open new worlds and straining knowledge to shades of yellow, to finally reflect off the glasses of a young women, asleep under her books, her necessities. Paper flutters to her breath, as if alive without beating heart or thinking brain, all living a sort of life around her, dancing to a rhythm unheard and unseen.

But beats disrupted by ringing volume of her phone, crying louder and louder, buried in the words. So shifts, the women, arousing to a voice, so beckoning her to sleep, to go back to her world of black ink and white pages; A slender hand, out of books piled to heaven, reaches for the phone, now screeching for human touch. With a grab and habitual flip, rings phased to voice, one unheard of before.

Words articulated a tone so fine, rid of all impurities and hostility; she had almost mistaken it for Joker, the accent, the careful choice of words, but it seemed so jovial and light, so oily to the touch that they struck sparks against Joker's usual half hidden bitter tone dipped in poison. "Hello, Ms. Readman. Are you enjoying your sleep?"

Tension pulled her up, papers tapped in mid-step to her hands, edges sharp and dedicated to attack and disarm the intruder, ruffled books jumped in surprise off her to the ground, shaking. Veils of sleep snatched away by keen attention. In mere seconds, she was up and ready, eyes fierce and strong. Dust formed in storms, winding through bookcases, cracked and weathered, over books. They wind around the legs of a rather stout man, clean-shaven and chinless indeed. Black blazer and trousers ironed and cleaned to perfection with not a speck of stain on the silk black and with a tie worn so perfectly straight as if measured with a ruler, he wore on his face a smile, inviting those to join him in whatever he was doing. Ruddy legs, hardly used to the overbearing weight he carried on himself, brought him hobbling to the women out of the rows of bookcases.

But no sweat dampened his hair or tarnished his tight bowler hat which he tipped in greeting, "Top of the morning to you." The closed the phone he had in hand and simply let it disappeared inside his trouser pocket. Bending down, the sort of way that's possible with no knees, and he picked up a book. "A bit old, they are. I don't know why you would spend all your time with them. A tragic waste of life, I suppose." The next words, defensive and quick, a rip shot first reply:

"Who are you and what do you want?" She dropped her phone as well, and with no second passed, that hand was occupied by the rippling pages. Did he dare to propose her books as meaningless? Dust swirls in dances, stroking the papers that soon join the frolic around and around them, forming a loose circle, caging them in barely visible boundaries. He chuckled, low and throaty, and made his way, his bulging girth first, fingers twirling his ruddy mustache, to her, closer and closer until she lashed out in a paper trail of sheer edges, fueled by the seemingly endless reserves inside her coat, flowing in arcs like a whip around to him, he blocked with the book, hardly flinching. Wedge deep into the book, unable to continue cutting through, completely stopped by unseen force. Was he a paper master also?

"My dear, I think it would be better if you would drop your petty weapons and kindly come with us."

"Us?" those sounds, once uttered, reverberated throughout the still library that encased them, growls and woofs were heard in accordance, metals rummaged through the piles of books to them.

"These are my metal, my claws in the organization that holds me. Now, I ask you again, will you drop your weapons?" he sighed. Metals moved closer. "It is futile to retaliate."

"Never, "the paper trails dissipated, knives replaced the former. One sheared the book, and another, a raging metal, rolling back hitting its companions. Blinding light reflected off their hides and charging with equal strength of bulls, they bit and scraped their way against the forming structure of the white barrier, each touch prompted large paper spikes through each muzzle and paw. Materializing rapier sought guidance in her grip, a pathway emerged from the white walls and she bounded forward towards the man. Blade poised back, ready to stab through his flesh, paper followed behind her in beautiful grace, azure sight narrow and fierce, and such the final blow in a climatic drama.

But no blood, no crimson, just clear, unblemished water. The paper matted with the liquid started to falter. Those that still could, the wolves creaked into position around her. Various gears and springs fell to the floor, now slowly drowning in the water. The books soaked some of it up, running the ink right of the pages. Right before her eyes, unbelieving and trapped, he melted. Features became distorted, skin became syrup. Color changed from the rosy red cheek and fair skin to transparent, she saw her reflection then sliced in half. Rising out of the clothes was a tower of glisten, vaguely resembling man.

With a voice at first indistinct, it said, "I told you all this fighting is futile." Pounding over her, like the waves, it engulfed her, water filled her lungs. No escape. Coughing and scrabbling in the pool, she tried to swim her way out, but invisible hands held her down. Air, she needed air. "Pleasant dreams, Agent Paper."

* * *

Author's Note: You enjoy?


	3. Chapter 3

Beep. Beep. Beep. His only companion the constant tone of the monitor, but he was still alone and was grateful for it.

The heart beating on and on, even through travesty and horror, it beats to live on and keep on. Even so, it so quivers with anxiety, with fear for another intruder. He lies there; eyes open to the drear ceiling above him. Halls outside his doors had stitches through mouths silenced until the brunt of the morning commute made way through the doors and loosened them. Ears tuned to all sounds, so focused on breathing. With thoughts so drowned away to the dark deaths of his misery, a black void in his thoughts where the pain kept on beating with his heart, allowing no thought to be without witness of the terror from last night. He sighed with closed eyes of futile reassurance.

"Over, it's over. This isn't going to happen again," he whispered under the silent blanket of the early morning. He gazed out the window, a city slow to rise. With lights that left their golden flare to the night, bleak and empty under the sun, and the light winds winding through all crevice and niche. Shaking his head, he lay back down on the pillow, lifting his arm, embedded in a cast. A narrowing gaze and clenched teeth signaled fear that still had hold of him. His forehead creased in worry,

"They're going to come back…"

* * *

"Maggie, you awake?" Drake softly murmured, gently shaking his daughter. As seconds past with no reply, he smiled, brushing away the fair hair from her face. He crouched down beside her and picked her up in his arms, holding her close to his body. He made way to her room and let down her to the bed. Tucking her in, he snuck a quick kiss to her cheek. "Goodnight, Mag."

He closed the door, now out in the dark hallway of his home. He stretched and went downstairs to the patio. A star speckled night greeted him as he came outside. He nodded at the clear sight, nothing was going to ruin the weekend with his kid. Nothing.

* * *

"Hello Mr. Carpenter. How are you doing?" the nurse asked as she came into the room and did her job of checking the IVs. Joseph merely rolled his eyes to acknowledge her, barely paying attention to her. He scoffed.

"Not anywhere to close to bliss I had before you walked in. Mind you to piss off?" he hissed, not caring to tailor his words. The nurse remained quiet, undaunted by the crippled man before her.

"Is something troubling you?" she continued with the same tone of cheer as before. His scowl died instantly. Fear took swift steps to a smaller and colder place, paranoia. Analyzing all steps she took, he noted all her features and actions. She was dark and plain, nothing out of the ordinary.

"No, nothing." Words worked in small platoons, careful and silent, probing for the deep.

"Is it work?" The conversion picked up speed. He watched her look out the window; he watched her look to the ground, presumably at some car he couldn't see. Fear cackled in his ears, he listened. He could hear her plotting, plotting to kill him.

"Is the light hurting you?"

"No it's fine."

"Maybe you need some more time for rest," and closed the blinds. With darkness, the fear seemed to thrive.

"Well, same old, same old. Always stuck in the office."

"The office is it? Where do you work?"

"Eh, no where important. You should be asking that to upper management people, those who actually matter to the public and," he smirked, "the tabloids."

"Not happy with where you are?"

"Better than average, I suppose."

"Isn't being the Director of Operations completely king above the masses?" He breathed in for reply, face contorted to surprised. She stopped him. "While we're on that topic, the British Library should stop riling about in the old archives if they plan for another tomorrow." She walked away, locked the door and with heavy strides, came back, hands in pocket.

"Who are you?!" He sat up, his mind instantly coming to the resolution of the IV. Cords were ripped from his body, bleed seeped from the holes. What was this sensation? He felt tired, weak. Sight burned at the edges, softly blurring in the center.

"Don't raise your voice now. I promise it'll be quick," she slipped a long needle filled a gold liquid out from her pocket.

* * *

Drake coughed from the brisk air and retired into the house. A click of the door, a click of the gun, his life was stilled. The cold barrel pressed to the side of his temple, taking away all heat. In front of his was his daughter, struggling in the hands of one of the intruders. A large man dressed in black, how cliché.

"We'll make this short," a women's voice, high and abrupt. He couldn't see her face, not daring to even turn his head. "We're going to take her and you're going to follow our orders to keep her alive. Promise, no backstabbing or anything," she paused. "As long as you do a good job. We understand that you are a consistently hired mercenary for the British Library. You will get hired against us and while you're in, get the information that we asked for. Got it?"

Drake gulped, eyes transfixed on Maggie. She screamed as she could, mouth cupped and restrained. He nodded. "Good boy. Now get all the files about the missions conducted by the Library and even dig deeper for the more private ones. Also, it doesn't hurt to have some special employee files to wrap up the package with. Have a nice night now."

* * *

He ran, ran hard. Sweat poured in rivers, matting his hair, staining his clothes. Pain racked his body, but he knew. He knew! If he stopped, they'd find him. They'd get him. He remembered what he did; he attacked her and bounded out the door. He saw the doors in sight, he saw them. He stopped and hid behind the wall from their gazes. He panted, with breaths increasing in vigor. Wounds underneath bandages reopened and bled. Broken bones forced a dull ache through his body.

"No, no, no," he repeated. He clutched his head, trapped. Just calm down, just calm down.

"Jesus, are you an annoying prick." He jerked up, the nurse. The needle glinted in the bright light. A hand caught her wrist and he slammed into her abdomen, sending her to the floor. The needle shattered, its contents spilling to the floor in droplets and splashes. The actions caught the attention of the two men by the door. They charged to him. He ran forward and tripped one of the men, launching his fist to the face. He ducked under the swinging mass of muscle of the other man and commence with a swift uppercut to the chin. Fear chocked him as he was caught. The bulky hand grabbed Joseph's injured arm and broke it again. Joseph cried in hurt and dropped to the floor. He heard her voice again, through throbbing of agony.

"We wanted to do this the nice and easy way, but…I hate you."

* * *

Author's note: Carrots can heal bones. :O


End file.
